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Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

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John Fuller

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Two Words

Every green June you were bound
     To get your seventy or better. 
     Your body stood sentry, begetter
Of deep fours on opponents’ ground.

Or over frosty turf, squeezed by 
     Your stubborn spent opponents, stopped, 
     Dodged two defenders, dropped
Down between wooden posts: try!

You were bound to swerve out front, 
     Ever opportune. To see 
     Your round toe out, just so! We
Burned to observe your deep dropped punt.

Better, words were up your street. 
     Poetry offered you effrontery 
     Of purpose, sunbursts of energy.
Poetry swept you off your feet.

Doors open. Due events bore us. 
     Beds of roses; beds of woe. 
     Odds, betted on, prove to be so,
Goddesses born to swoon before us.

But now your future refused your quest, 
     Wrote on your body: ‘Return to Sender.’ 
     You vowed never to surrender,
Never to be repossessed.

Not to deny, no, but to defy 
     Stressed underpowered neurones, 
     To defy torture, defy bones
Too soon fettered, defy good-bye.

Were you owed your needed joy? 
     Too soon your present fortune drowned, 
     Gone now, gone underground,
Not now to return, poor boy.

For us, no doubt, our sorrow sends 
     You on, our forerunner. We 
     Utter our tender nonsense, free
For now of our own unprosperous ends.

Need we protest our story’s never 
     To be endured or be enjoyed? 
     Two words prove to be destroyed,
Two sweet words, now gone for ever.

Page(s) 38-39

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